


Perfumed

by theparadox



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Romance, aliens fascinated with human hair, honestly just jaal being so stupidly in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-02
Updated: 2017-08-02
Packaged: 2018-12-10 06:34:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,470
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11686044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theparadox/pseuds/theparadox
Summary: Jaal is fascinated with Sara's hair.





	Perfumed

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this on my phone at 3AM so forgive any typos or repeated words but Editing Is For Chumps

Jaal is fascinated with Sara's hair.

At first, hair came as a bit of a surprise. The angara are a smooth species, the skin upon their heads as smooth as the rest of them. Smooth, but tough. Through diligent study of loaned biological manuals, he has accepted the evolutionary development of hair on various areas upon the human body, though they are hardly necessary any more with the use of protective clothing. Now, it seems, it is used largely for decoration. Expression. Tradition. Each human has a different style characteristic to themselves. Suvi’s feathery sprigs framing her face. Cora's stylish layers cropped close and sleek. Liam's coils textured tightly.

And then, there is Sara. Compared to the rest, relatively simple. Brown, he understands, is a very common color among human hair, but he finds nothing common about it. It is a smooth, deep brown, the color of deep soil meeting sunlight. Compared to the vibrantly colorful environment about Heleus, Sara's brown is quite extraordinary. Comfortable. Warm.

But more -- is its style.

When Jaal first saw her, he assumed her hair was in a permanent fixture. Ever stationed at the back of her head, he has heard it referred to as a ponytail. A style used to keep lengthy hair out of the way. The description caused him pause, interested eyes focused upon it's sway. How much _longer_ is it?

It is not until their friendship deepens, their bond grows that he is allowed the privilege of the answer. Returning from the chills of Voeld sees their Pathfinder quickly seeking out a shower to warm her skin, and a good thing, too. Jaal struggles to remember the last time she had not shivered. She is so small, so thin-skinned; he aches to engulf her, to wrap himself about her, to shelter her from the storm. But here, upon her invitation, she settles with waiting for her completion by perusing her bedroom. The little knick knacks are all fascinating. Some obviously token Initiative items, some newly acquired (he delightfully lifts a small model of an angaran ship stationed upon her desk), some assumedly her own brought from the Milky Way. A framed photo of a young Sara and two others; a boy remarkably her similar, and a woman who could only be her late mother. A stack of beaded bracelets. A hooded N7 sweatshirt draped across the desk chair. And -- a curious item.

It's a flat thing, a grooved handle widening to a panel, smooth on one side and spiked evenly on the other. Before he can investigate further, he finds himself caught in the act as the door slides open, the Pathfinder herself entering and entirely abducting his attention. Rather than her signature ponytail, her chocolate locks are released and fall in delicate waves over her shoulders, gradually calming their volume from her recent drying. Tied back as it often is, the tips of her hair barely skims the bottom of her neck, but now? It pools over her shoulders and spills down her back, sanctioning off well past the gap beneath her arms. As she walks, the strands lift and flow, beckoning to mind the image of a prideful rofjinn billowing in the breeze.

But -- she has caught him staring, observant as she is. She stares back a moment, eyebrows lifted in the hint of a question, then glances back over her shoulder, as though his attention might be behind her. As though he could possibly look at anything but her.

“It's a brush,” she said, imploring him to blink. At first, the words are gibberish. Are they even words? His confusion must be apparent, for she points at the paneled item clutched in his hands with a faint smile. “A brush. You know -- for brushing.”

Ah. Forcing his gaze away from her, Jaal follows Sara's instruction to the thing in his grasp, lifting it one more. “Brushing? What does it brush?”

The skies bless him; his eyes lift just in time to see her smile grow, as it always does with his inquiries. Now, her pointed hand opens, palm upward. “My _hair_ ; actually, can I have it back now? It'll be really tangled if I let it stay like this.”

It takes him a moment to put the two together, but only half a moment to formulate a plan from the information. Instead of complying, Jaal’s grip tightens over the handle, brows lifting hopefully. “Perhaps -- I could do it. Would you mind?”

The offer is obviously a shock -- and an _intimate_ one, if the flush of pale pink upon her wind-bitten cheeks are any indication. The two of them have grown close. Very close. Visiting during down time, occupying common space while working silently, observing each other carrying out their hobbies. Jaal’s tinkering. Sara’s map making (with the decorative detail of one interested in art). Soft chatting into the night over private comms as voices grow fainter, looser, sleepier. Their intimacy is nothing new, as he feels quite comfortable occupying her private quarters in her absence, but perhaps this is something new. Contact. Touching. He can see the deliberation in her eyes -- first flickering to his, then away; returning, then dropping in the nervous fashion he had noticed in her. But finally, he sees a conclusion arriving in her face and she smiles; the smile she uses to defend herself when embarrassed or uncomfortable. Humans do love their defense mechanisms.

“Ah -- sure, why not? Um, we… Over here?” Soft hazel eyes skirt about the room for a place to best carry out the activity before she sits upon the bed, a hand placed behind her to indicate his placement. One would scarcely know from observing Ryder during her duties that her nature is quite _anxious_. Awkward. Adorable. “I mean, we could stand, or I could sit at my desk, but I think this is more comfortable -- if you don't feel weird about it, that is.”

Sara's words cut off suddenly as Jaal takes the offered seat behind her, a kind smile warding of her stammering. Here, placed upon equal leveling without a shred of armor between them, she seems so terribly _small_. A large, gentle hand rests between her shoulders, urging her to face away. “This is fine, Sara,” he replies in a low voice that seems to dismiss her words, save for a soft _okay_ under her breath. With careful, reverent hands, he begins.

He draws both hands toward the back of her neck, catching the wealth of her hair to bring it fully behind her, creating an unbroken waterfall. A few more strokes find their way toward her roots, her part, the crown of her head, all making sure to adequately gather the strands together. It is strategic, he tells himself, but he cannot resist. Though unbrushed, her hair is smooth as silk, thicker and heavier than it appears to be. When he finally lifts the brush to run through the long strands, he guides the hair into its teeth and delights in watching it rise and fall. Come together and separate, gently coaxing apart any bits that might tangle together. As he combs, he notices the movement releases the floral scent of her hair, rising to his nose. It's a beautiful scent. His hands pause on her hair -- it's something familiar…

“I… visited a fragrance stand on Aya. Cora and I noticed one of the soaps had similar consistencies as shampoo -- soap specifically designed for hair. Lexi said it was safe to try.”

Jaal is uncertain what affects him first. The familiarity of the scent, now attached to someone dear to him, or the very fact that this person, this beautiful woman, so eagerly seeks to understand and enjoy his culture, to take part with his people, to honor their traditions, to be not only his companion, but a true friend to all he loves…

Something beautiful blossoms in his chest. He lowers down from his height to nestle his nose against the back of Sara's head, deep into the waves of her hair. He can feel the residual dampness in the roots, granting the soap additional fragrance. He exhales slowly, something akin to a purr rumbling in his chest. Her responding giggle draws him closer, hands closing around the bulk of her hair.

“It is utterly gorgeous, darling one,” he whispers, his fingers stroking and petting along her hair, her neck, her shoulders. A smile twitches at the little sound in her throat that he knows as _impatience_ when she begins to wiggle, to twist in her position so that she might better lean into him. It takes little maneuvering for her to find her home beneath his chin, rested in his chest, angled still perfectly for his nose to remain in her hair. Fingers continually at work touching, smoothing, loving her. “It suits you.”

**Author's Note:**

> so this isn't directly inspired by this art, but i do love it: https://artofshinga.tumblr.com/post/159880813267/i-romanced-jaal-with-a-sara-who-had-the-braids-in


End file.
